In Pain, In Need
by Songwind
Summary: Inspired by a certain Disney movie. Erik, Christine and Raoul all separately encounter a seemingly harmless old lady who appears to be able to grant each of them their greatest desires. But each wish granted comes with a high price...


In Pain, In Need

By Songwind

Disclaimer- I don't own Phantom of the Opera or anything related to that. This fanfiction idea is mine, however.

Synopsis- Christine, Raoul and Erik all have one thing that they want- no, that they need- above all else. All believe that their dreams come true when a strange old lady comes into town selling her wares. It is only when they discover the price each must pay for what they want that they realize... perhaps they should be careful what they wish for.

* * *

Chapter One: Poor, Unfortunate Soul

"Please, Madame! A doll for your lovely child to play with! Monsieur- a delightful bauble for your new bride. Ah, my dear, you've come to the right place; a toy to amuse your darling while you see to the house in the day."

But mother, newlyweds and young pet owner all made their way past the little stand with their eyes averted, hurrying through the chill autumn breeze towards the safety and comfort of their own homes.

Only one figure paused; a mere shadow that none of the others noticed.

Erik stood with his cloak wrapped tightly about his body, both to protect him from the cold air and to make certain that no one would be able to see him (or, more specifically, his face). Though it wasn't likely that that would occur tonight, with the stars gently blanketed by the thinnest of clouds and the moon a mere sliver of her full glory. He shivered as a breeze went by, but he could not make himself move from the shadowy corner of a nearby dress-shop; something about that little stand with that tiny lady commanded his gaze.

It was pathetic, really. The stand was barely that; a little old desk with a creaking chair for a small, old woman to sit on while she waited for a customer. Which was a shame; from what he could see, her wares were of decent make. They would be nothing if compared to what he was capable of creating, of course, but considering the apparent lack of competence in shopowners today..

He growled under his breath. So much for getting another cloak; he would have to see to it that that man was, at the very least, fired for making it six inches too short for the Phantom.

The woman's head snapped around, and she seemed to be staring directly at him.

Erik cursed mentally at himself; had he been louder than he'd thought? Because he'd definitely given himself away if someone so old could hear him. She was certainly hard of hearing; her voice seemed a bit too loud for normal conversation, or even for normal sales pitches on the streets. And her voice had that uncertain lilt to it that gave away that she wasn't sure whether people could hear her or not.

"Monsieur!" she called, making him grunt in exasperation. Here he was, being addressed on a night when he'd had no intention of being seen, and he hadn't even attempted to hide in the shadows again. He began to slip away.

"Monsieur! Wait, please! Have a look at my wares?" she pleaded. "A good sir like you with a home and a bed... surely you could spare one moment?"

Damn his sympathy for those who lived on the streets. Erik's feet froze to the ground despite his own protests, and he found himself turning to stare for a moment at that little stand, with the equally tiny woman behind it. He glanced up at the sky; the little bit of moon that he could see was beginning to set. It was far past time to get back to safety.

The old woman seemed to sense his reluctance. "Perhaps you may find something of use here, Monsieur. I sell tools as well as baubles," she suggested. "I sell wishes and bargains, and can even get a nice cloak put together for my most patient of customers."

He started. He'd never said anything about his ordering a cloak to anyone but that man at the shop. And she certainly hadn't been around then... He turned his eyes back to her, two bright points of gold on the darkened street.

"How could you know if I needed a cloak?" he demanded quietly, his voice carrying easily across to the woman.

She smiled slightly and gestured towards her wares.

Sighing, Erik slipped towards the little stand. In mere seconds he stood before her, glancing through her wares.

There was very little to see; the craftsmanship was decent, as he had determined earlier, but there wasn't much of it. Either the woman had sold some things earlier, or this was all she had made before she'd decided to try selling them.

"These're the toys for the young ones, Monsieur," she said, indicating one part of the stand. "And these are the little gifts to please your lady..."

_My lady,_ Erik thought somewhat bitterly.

Christine had had her head in the clouds during their entire music lesson today, with an odd, dreamy look on her face that Erik had seen before, and disliked immensely for what it meant. She had met someone, and that someone was clearly more important to her at the moment than lessons with a mere Angel of Music. The lesson had ended on a sour note...

_"No, please don't leave me!" she begged, pounding away against the mirror. Her hands were already bruised and cut, the mirror already showing signs of damage. Tears ran down her face as she implored her Angel to come back to her, to sing, to do something- not to leave her like this._

_And he stood there with his heart breaking with every body-wracking sob she gave. He stood there and watched until she cried herself to sleep._

A very sour note.

And then the business with the cloak...

"Today has not been a very good day, has it?" the old woman inquired thoughtfully.

He started again.

"Not for sales, nor for love either," she added.

"You-" he began, then stopped. "Why would you say that?" he asked curtly.

"Well, Monsieur, I haven't sold a thing all day. And a young couple ended their engagement to each other right before my eyes earlier today. Quite sad, if you ask me. I do so love seeing young folk together."

_Young folk,_ his thoughts echoed sadly. Being in his forties, he was hardly young anymore. Despite his fitness, he could feel age taking its toll on him. To be reminded of this, after all else that had happened today.

"It is late. I bid you better luck with your wares upon the morrow," he said sharply, and turned to leave.

"I like seeing people falling in love in general, of course," remarked the old lady, as though she hadn't heard him. "Yes, age shouldn't matter. Nor should religion. Or even looks, for that matter. Don't you agree, Monsieur?"

Erik whirled around, one hand whipping out the Punjab as his eyes blazed. He stared at her for another moment, and then he spat, "A gypsy. I should have known."

"Nor should race," she added thoughtfully. "Your race or who you live with- or where you live- shouldn't matter, either."

"I was wondering how you could know anything about me," he continued. "It's your foolish little parlor tricks. Am I right?"

"You insult me, my dear. What on earth have I done to gain an insult from you?" she asked, sounding slightly wounded.

"I am in no mood for word games, Madame," he warned. "I am not very pleased right now-"

"I can help with that, if you'd like. Just put your little rope away-"

"I do not want your help," he growled. "I bid you good night. Before I decide to end your attempts at living."

"Then perhaps you don't want to have your greatest desire granted tonight."

Erik paused, and stared at her in wide-eyed surprise at the ridiculous statement. Then he laughed; a horrible, croaking sound with no humor in it that would have normally sent a shiver of fear down the bravest of men's spines. "My desires? My- Madame, even the best gypsy trick would not be able to see what it is I truly desire."

"No, but then I am not merely a gypsy," she said quietly. "Would you like me to prove it to you, by telling you what it is you want?"

Erik gestured mockingly. "As you wish, give it a try!" he said.

"Every day you wish that you would never have to wear that mask again."

He stopped.

"Would you like that to come true, Monsieur?"

"Don't even try to pitch your wares to me," he said. "No chemical mixture in heaven or hell could hide my face."

"The point would not be to hide your face, Monsieur. It would be to make it so that you would not have to hide your face."

"You cannot do such a thing. It is not possible."

"I can indeed, Monsieur. I have made limbs grow back after they have been sawed off. I have given life back to stillborn children, with the blessing of the child's parents. A little change like your face would not be so great an effort as that."

"You lie."

"Do I?" she asked, eyes glittering in the dim light.

Erik fell silent.

"Because you have had a bad day, I am willing to give you a... shall we say a discount? All you need is a bit of a touch up- it will take a few days, at least- and then you can be on your way. Once you've paid your price, of course."

"You think my mother did not try that?" Erik asked quietly. "But you cannot simply grow a nose after never having one in the first place. Mother died thousands of francs in debt because she tried to go to every doctor in order to fix me."

"A doctor is trapped within the laws of science, my dear. I am not."

"Witchcraft, then, if not parlor tricks," he said. His hand was still tightly gripping the Punjab lasso.

"Would you not do anything you could to win your lady's heart?" she asked.

Erik brought up the lasso warningly. "I must ask you not to look into my mind again," he warned. "However you're doing that, I suggest you cease doing so."

She shrugged and turned away. "Very well. Lose your lady to her new suitor. Have a good night, Monsieur."

The old lady began to pack her things away under the stand while Erik stood there, the lasso limp in his hands. She had known-? No, impossible. She must have guessed. She _must_ have guessed. Witchcraft was not at all safe to do, from the little he'd read about it. And gypsies were quite good at reading people- otherwise, their fortune tellers would not be quite as rounded in the belly as so many of them were. This had to be a trick of some sort.

But... what if..?

Images of possibilities flickered through his mind. Meeting Christine in person, with a normal face- nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. Composing and writing music under his own name- a name that he had almost forgotten over the years, since he had been the only one addressing himself over the last decade or so. Having people praise his work, his looks, his life. Moving out from underneath the Opera Populaire and getting a normal home. Inviting his dearest pupil into that home, having her admire the work that he had done himself, admire his music, admire his voice for what it was. Having her forgive him for telling her he was her Angel of Music- no, asserting that he still was and always would be her Angel of Music.

What if, indeed.

He had declared to himself before that he would do anything he could, try anything possible, to be with Christine. To live a normal life...

"You know, it's funny," the old lady remarked. "Everyone who lives a normal life wish theirs was filled with intrigue and adventure. Those who have intrigue and the like wish they were just normal people. I wonder what's really normal in this world..."

"Certainly not my life," Erik said bitterly. Then, after a pause, "You could make me appear as they do?" He gestured towards the sleeping homes and businesses that lined the empty street.

"I can give you the face that you were meant to be born with," the old woman replied carelessly, as though they were discussing something as everyday as buying bread.

Erik fell silent, staring at her.

"Of course, you would have to pay a price, but that's necessary for the... medium I use to cause such miracles to take place," the woman continued.

His golden eyes narrowed. "What would be the price for such a gift?"

"Ah, not much, not much, my dear," she said reassuringly. "I would never ask more than my customers can give me- that would just be cruel! But you, you.. you have something that I need for another transaction, Monsieur."

"Which is?" What? His money? How could one tell how well-off he was, considering his cloak was hiding all but his mask now? No, that could not be it. Erik pulled his cloak in even more tightly against his skeletal frame as the wind blew by more insistently.

"What I want from you is... your voice."


End file.
